I rolled Sihtric, witch, forest/wilderness, cute. This time I went for cute ending. 1079 words; no warnings other than a shippy vibe... you can imagine the girl is Eahlswith or an OC. Prompt list here.
The girl kept stealing glances, as they walked together through the forest. Sihtric was a man of few words, so even though he walked beside her, she had little other than her own curious thoughts to keep her company. His eyes met hers occasionally, each time with a small smile plucking at his lips before his gaze darted away. He wasn’t like the other men she knew from the alehouse. He didn’t act like he had anything to prove, and he never, ever did anything to make her nervous.
A copse of beech trees, he had said. That was the proper place to bury the charm, so that’s where they were going. The other girls were more nervous about him than anyone else, Lord Uhtred’s pet Dane, but they were all fools. She looked down at the thing he had helped her make. A bundle of cloth, wrapped ‘round three times with a ribbon she used to wear in her hair as a girl. It crunched inside between her fingers. He hadn’t told her exactly which herbs he had filled it with to set the spell.
It was witchcraft; that’s what the priests told them on Sundays. But her mother had called it seiðr, and before she died she had spoken of it as a blessed skill, something to aid men and women as they struggled with the cruelties of fate. And Sihtric, the quiet, unassuming warrior that now led her through the woods, was a seiðmann, and happy to help her intercede with the old gods for her father’s life.
Kindness. That’s what she saw in Sihtric’s eyes whenever they met hers. Everyone she knew in Winchester was afraid of him, a Dane in their midst. But he treated her better than just about every Saxon man she knew.
“Here,” he said, nodding his head up toward the top of the ridge, where a stand of giant trees created a midday darkness, blotting out the sky entirely with the leaves of their thick branches.
“Why must it be beech trees?” she inquired as they entered the grove, happy to have finally thought of something to engage him in conversation over.
Sihtric looked up, a considering look creasing his dark brow. “Beech trees grow tall, and strong. Their canopy shelters the animals.” His gaze dropped to her, captivating her eyes entirely. “These are the qualities we need to send to your father. Strength, stamina, protection.”
She couldn’t quite describe the way she felt when he looked at her like that. But it was a good feeling. Like he was somehow offering these things to her, too. And that he had the power to give them. His clear, two-toned eyes focused on her and nothing else. She nodded and, impulsively, took his hand.
He was surprised, she could feel that in his grip, but he did not reject her affection. With another one of those slow smiles, he used their entwined fingers to lead her up to the heart of the grove. At the base of the largest tree, they sank to their knees together. “We’ll bury it here.” He let go of her hand, regretfully, she thought, as he took out a knife to break the ground. He closed his eyes and murmured a few words before striking downwards, too low for her to hear. “It doesn’t have to be deep, but your hands need to dig it. Think of your father while you do.”
Love poured from her heart as the girl scrambled her fingers through the soil, making a hole large enough to bury the charm. Sihtric started humming, something low and deep in his chest that sounded nothing like church hymns but warmed her twice as well.
She set the bundle into the earth. Sihtric said a few words she couldn’t understand, and then took both of her hands between his own. He drew them out, pushing them into the dirt piled to either side and guiding her to smooth it back in with him. He pressed her palms to the little mound they’d made. She could feel him exhale against her cheek, they were so close together, but she dared not look up to his face. The moment felt too important for that kind of distraction.
“It’s done,” he said, after a long, silent moment. He released her hands from the earth. “Your father is as protected as we can make him.”
“Thank you, Sihtric,” she said, savoring his name on her tongue. She hadn’t said it often, but with her heart swelling now under these trees, she thought she might like to say it every day.
“It’s nothing,” he said, then: “I hope it helps.”
They brushed their hands off and he helped her rise. “Let’s stay a while,” she said when his feet turned back down the ridge. “I like how it feels, here.”
Sihtric turned back to her with a smile, less guarded than the ones he’d given her before. “I feel it too.” His eyes dances between the branches above them. “It bodes well.”
They wandered the cozy little space under the copse of trees for a time. Sihtric was silent as ever, though she thought he was stealing as many glances at her as she was at him.
“Where did you learn this magic?” she ventured.
“My mother.”
He looked sad as he said it. She wondered if it was her place to press for more.
“Among my people, it’s mostly a skill taught to women.” His gaze slid off her, sheepish again, and she wondered why he was even revealing this to her, when she didn’t really know any better.
She took his hand again. “Could you teach me?”
His eyes widened, and he regarded her for a long moment. They faced each other under the boughs of the ancient trees. His head dipped, and his confidence returned. “Yes.”
She smiled up at him, not sure what to say next. Just a little bit lost in admiration of his cheekbones.
His eyes traveled over her face too. Lifting his hand, he cupped her face, thumb sliding across the apple of her cheek. “Just a smudge of dirt on your face.”
“Oh.”
The wind shimmered through the trees, but they did not hear it. His hand remained on her cheek, fingers cupping her jaw, and all it took was the slightest lifting of her chin for him to kiss her. A different kind of magic bloomed in this forest grove.
Author's Note: Tlk-Tober is such a brilliant idea and I loved writing this! It is also on AO3 here, if you prefer to read on there.
It was a slightly chilly, but sunny, day in October and Stiorra was tasked with going to the nearby woods and collecting firewood to use over winter. In truth, Stiorra didn't mind collecting firewood. She loved the forest, there was always so much to see.
As she entered the forest, she heard the birdsong, the rustle of the leaves in the slight breeze, the movement of woodland animals. She smiled to herself softly and closed her eyes to take in the sounds, the scents of the forest.
Frowning slightly, Stiorra opened her eyes when she heard a different noise, a noise she had not heard in the forest before: whistling. It was not a harsh whistling, but more of a sound that complimented the other sounds of the forest.
Intrigued, Stiorra followed the sound until she started catching glimpses of a man. At first Stiorra wasn’t even sure if she had even seen a man or if it was a trick of the light. But the more she looked, the more certain she was. He was walking through the undergrowth, and wearing woodland colours so as to blend into his surroundings perfectly.
Moving a quietly as possible to not disturb the man in front of her, Stiorra kept to the cover behind tree trunks. She was fascinated by the man and wanted to watch him for longer.
He stopped whistling suddenly. Without turning around, he said “I know you are there. You do not need to linger behind trees. Please come out, I don’t bite.” The man said, clearly addressing Stiorra.
Hesitantly, Stiorra stepped out from behind the tree she was hiding behind after a moment of thought about the man’s statement. However, she still kept her distance.
Finally turning around and taking a good look at Stiorra, the man spoke directly to her now. “Ah, so it was you who was following me. I have seen you in this forest before, you come here often.”
“I do,” Stiorra admitted defiantly, narrowing her eyes. “But I have not seen you before.”
“I am very good at keeping myself hidden should I want to.” He said tilting his head to the side as if in thought.
“You didn’t do a very good job of that today.”
“Perhaps today I wanted you to see me.” He replied, not missing a beat. Moving forward a step, the man stopped when Stiorra became defensive, pulling a knife from her belt. “There is no need for violence, Lady.” He smirked when she narrowed her eyes further at his manner of address.
“I am not a Lady.” Stiorra said defensively.
“Then what should I call you instead? I do not know your name.”
Hesitating, Stiorra considered her options. She could leave now and stop this meeting, or she could tell him her name and find out more about him. Her curiosity won. “I am Stiorra.”
“It is nice to meet you finally, Stiorra.” The man bowed formally, hand over his heart. “I am Sigtryggr.”
Bemused, Stiorra looked around the forest clearing they were standing in. She was yet to meet a man like this in her life so far. He was formal, yet casual all at once. Charming, yet she also had the feeling he could be dangerous as well. He was a mystery, but seemed like an open book on the surface.
Reiterating his earlier point, he reminded her again, “I will not hurt you, Stiorra. The knife really isn’t necessary.”
“You said earlier you had seen me in these woods before. Were you watching me? Because to me, that seems like a good reason to keep the knife, Sigtryggr.”
He chuckled lowly, almost a purr. A sound full of allure and seduction. “It is true, I watched you from afar a few times. But only because I find you beautiful. The women where I am from are... different from you.”
“And where precisely is it that you are from?” Stiorra asked cautiously, but she lowered the knife.
Smirking to confirm he had noticed the change in her stance, he replied mysteriously, “Not from around here.”
Clearly he wasn’t going to elaborate more, and Stiorra didn’t push for an answer. She watched as Sigtryggr sat on a moss covered rock, gesturing to a similar rock near where she stood. Frowning again, Stiorra looked at the rock, sure it had not been there before. Nevertheless, she sat slowly and looked at Sigtryggr, finally seeming to notice him fully. It was as if a mist in her mind had cleared and she could see him properly in all his beauty. And he was beautiful, there was no doubt about that. There was something almost otherworldly and ethereal about him. He seemed to know it as well, a fact he definitely seemed to play upon.
Looking around, Sigtryggr commented on the forest. “Isn’t this the best time of year?”
“Yes, it is my favourite season.” Stiorra admitted.
“Mine too,” he hummed in agreement.
They continued talking, settling into an easy rhythm. They talked about everything and nothing at the same time. Sigtryggr kept watching her while she talked. Attentive, but with the hint of a flirtatious smile ghosting his lips. The more they talked, the more seductive Sigtryggr became, staring into her eyes, brushing her fingers with his own. But every now and again, Stiorra was sure she saw something behind his back, but only out the corner of her eye. There was nothing there when she looked directly. In the back of her mind, that thought nagged at her. However, the next words he spoke made her forget all about it.
“One day, I would very much like to show you my home. It is like here, but... more.” He said, lightly touching her hand.
“How can it be more than here?” Stiorra asked with a smile.
Stiorra knew she should be getting back, it must be getting late and everyone would worry where she was. Saying as much, Sigtryggr only smiled and told her to look around. The sun had barely moved in the sky, as if not more than an hour had passed, yet it felt longer. Much longer, like at least the best part of the day.
“Strange... I thought I had been here longer.” She said, a crease forming between her eyebrows.
“Time has a funny way of slowing when you don’t want something to end.”
“You would understand when you see it.” He smiled lazily back, somehow seeming to add a smouldering look as well. “I would also like to introduce you to my... people.” He proceeded to describe his home. It really did sound wonderful.
“Not to contradict you, Sigtryggr, but the saying is usually the opposite. Time flies when you are having fun.”
“Ah yes, my mistake. Where I am from, we do not seem to have that problem.” Sigtryggr commented mildly, dismissing the slip of his tongue with ease.
Shaking her head, Stiorra stood from the rock she had sat on. “Nevertheless, I must collect firewood.” She said, looking around to spot some. “Thank you for today, Sigtryggr. I had a lot of fun. It was not how I expected my day to go.”
“You are most welcome, Stiorra. I will be here again when you want me to be.” Again Sigtryggr bowed formally in respect to her. Stiorra only smiled in return, turning away to hide the slight blush threatening to dust her cheeks.
“Until next time, Stiorra.” Sigtryggr whispered. His voice seemed to carry on the wind. Turning around to reply, Stiorra only saw the clearing. Sigtryggr was nowhere to be seen. It was as if he had disappeared into thin air, leaving only a bright red leaf in the shape of a heart where he had been sitting and a pile of firewood next to it.
Confused as she left for home, Stiorra thought about her time in the forest. Some things didn’t seem to add up, it had almost seemed like magic at times. With a jolt, Stiorra remembered the stories she had grown up with. Stories about the local forest. Stories of strange happenings in the forest, people coming back different, or not at all. Stiorra had never thought anything of it, had never understood why people were weary of the forest. She had never had any problems in it, and always felt at home there as if she was drawn to it. But perhaps there was a reason for that. Perhaps she had been watched over all the times she had been in there. And there was only one explanation for that. The stories were real, the Fae were real. Sigtryggr was Fae. And he was tempting her to go Faerie. All the allure and charm he exuded, of course he was Fae. The nagging thought returned. Of course, he has wings. But, more importantly, judging by the things he had alluded to, the way he acted, he was a high ranking Fae. A high ranking Fae indeed. And added to the fact he had said this was his favourite time of year... had she just met the King of the Fae Autumn Court?
I am so in love with this roll even though I’ve never done a piece focused on Sihtric. This ended up being more alluring/creepy, but what’re you gonna do? mildly nsfw (gif credit to stardust-pond)
words; 1585
The faintest touch, cool and light against her cheek. It was there a moment and then it was gone again with a rustle of leaves. Her fingers curled into the damp earth clenching it in a fist. A soft breath of frustration passed her lips as she tried to open her eyes. It was difficult. They felt so heavy.
“Oh!”
She grumbled softly, struggling to lift her lids. Her dismay seemingly causing whoever spoke amusement as they let out a slight chuckle. Only the slightest crunch told her this stranger stepped toward her again.
“Wake Filigeth.” A soft, man’s voice, accented strangely.
With great effort, she finally managed to blink a few times even then her vision blurred. In the time it took them to adjust all she could see was green, darkness, and a shadow above. It seemed to loom over her. Hastily as things came into focus, she scrambled away drawing herself into a ball with her chin tucked between her knees.
The shadow disappeared. All the green transformed before her bleary eyes to numerous trees -a kind which she had never seen- with their many leaves and branches illuminated by silvery moonlight. Light which appeared much brighter in the small clearing without the shadow to block it out. She looked for the shadow again, but it was gone. As she searched the clearing she began to notice other things as well; a fine blanket of mist hung above the grass, there were no stars in the sky above, and she heard none of the usual night creatures -no chirp of a cricket, hoot of an owl, nor scampering beasts. Wariness began to grow in her mind the longer the strange silence wore on.
“H-hello?” she called though she was fearful of what may respond.
Quick light steps echoed through the trees to her left. She snapped her head in their direction, desperately seeking through the darkness. Instantly they stopped. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she unfolded her knees from her chest and rose slowly to her feet still looking in the direction the ruckus had come from. The moment she stood she heard the steps again, this time behind her. Her heart leapt into her throat and she spun to face them.
“Who’s there?” Thankfully, her voice came out stronger than she felt.
That voice again. “Filigeth.”
She swallowed dryly. “Th-That’s not my name.”
A single deliberate step sounded before her and suddenly she could see the outline of a tall lithe man still just barely hidden in shadow by the leaves high above.
“Isn’t it?” His tone would have been soothing were it not for how unfamiliar and other worldly his voice and words sounded. “Little bird…?”
About to open her mouth and tell him her name she hesitated. Her brow creased as her lips turned down into a frown. She flushed. Could she truly have forgotten her own name?
“See?” As he spoke the word he stepped out into the light.
And at the sight of him, she let out an involuntary gasp for she had never seen anyone so beautiful; locks of silky raven black hair, luminescent hazel eyes that sparkled with unconcealed mirth, a sharp jaw, fine nose, and flawless pale skin. Unconsciously she took a step back in her shock. Her reaction only caused him to smile which if possible, made him even more devastating to look upon.
“Do not fear Filigeth.” His voice so quiet it met hear ears almost like a whisper on the wind.
“I…I’m not afraid.”
He took several steps toward her though oddly they made no noise -despite the fact she saw a leaf crunch underfoot. His gaze was intense for he did not look away as he drew near within an arms-length of her. She had to force herself not to shy away again from his gaze or presence. Everything about the stranger before her was so consuming -drawing her in but at the same time so stifling it made her wish to pull away.
He gave a barely perceptible nod as he came to a stop. “No. You are not.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“You, my Filigeth, may call me Sihtric.”
Confused, she asked. “Is that not your name?”
“It is a name which I should like you to call me,” he replied conciliatorily. “Is Filigeth not your name?”
Flustered, she frowned less sure than before. “I do not think so.”
“Do you not know?”
Tears sprang to her eyes at his questioning. “I-I do not remember…”
So swiftly that she hardly had the chance to breathe, Sihtric closed the distance between them. Tilting his head, he looked down into her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a finger to her lips. His foreign presence felt like it had wrapped itself around her as intimate as a lover’s embrace rendering her incapable of looking away. Sihtric’s finger trailed from her lips to gently wipe the single tear that escaped her eye. Looking at it oddly for the briefest second, Sihtric brought the tear to his lips and tasted it. Though she felt it was a strange thing to do, she could voice no protest hypnotized as she was by his hazel eyes at such a proximity.
“Sihtric?”
He shushed her soothingly. “You shall be my Filigeth.”
Somewhere in the back of her mind, the word echoed. Filigeth…Filigeth…You shall be my…Filigeth. And her own voice was there as well. Please! Sobs of anguish. Please just…just make it go away! Go…away.
A light pressure on her lips and her eyes flew open without her having realized they had closed. Sihtric’s lips brushed against her own in a gentle kiss. She felt dazed though she was quite unsure whether it was only from the kiss or the voices in her mind.
“Kiss me,” Sihtric murmured against her lips.
Unable to stop herself, her eyes fell closed once more. She drew in an audible breath as he brushed his lips against her’s again. He was smiling into the kiss as his cool fingers trailed along her arm up the side of her neck to cradle her jaw in his palm. Even as she melted within his kiss the voices still rang in her mind.
Make it go away! Please! Please…
Sobbing.
Sweet Filigeth…my Filigeth. Come.
His body was flush against her’s. Insistent, pressing were his lips and she yielded to him without a fight. Possessive hands ran licentiously over her body grasping at every part of her within his reach. She did not bother to resist the moan which built in her throat as Sihtric’s hand found her breast. His smirk was evident as he moved his mouth down along her jaw and she clutched at his shoulders. With his free hand he hooked an arm under her leg to wrap it around his waist eliminating any remaining space between then.
She could feel him acutely against her most sensitive area involuntarily, quirming causing a low groan to reverberate in his chest and his hips to jerk. The hand which kneaded her breast faltered before he took it away. She whined. Sihtric chuckled but did not pause in his move to lift her other leg so both were secured around his waist. With a firm hold on her he sank down to his knees on the grass and laid her down beneath him. Her hair spread in a halo around her head and she stared into Sihtric’s hazel eyes almost unblinking.
No! Her own voice cried in her mind. Go, go away…please...please.
Her brow furrowed in confusion, but it evaporated the moment Sihtric brushed his thumb over her cheek. He was smiling reverently at her.
I just want it to go away. It hurts. Make it go away…
What is your name?
“Filigeth.” He said as if answering his own question which rang in her mind.
She could not help smiling back at him.
“Sihtric.”
He hummed pleasantly and leaned in to kiss her. A ghost of the passion he’d exhibited not a minute ago seared through her even at the conversely gentle kiss he bestowed just then.
Eadflæd! I am Eadflæd!
Eadflæd tensed suddenly. Sihtric noticed immediately and withdrew to look down at her. Whatever he saw seemed to please him because he still smiled gently at her.
“What is it, little bird?” he asked.
“That’s not my name…”
Sihtric tilted his head and it was as if she were looking up again at the shadow which had originally frightened her. The light of the moon behind him, her laying prone upon the ground, and him hovering over her.
“What is your name?” Sihtric asked inexplicably.
What is your name? Echoed he echoed in her mind. Filigeth. It was his voice still which seemed to whisper it directly into her ear though she saw him perched above her.
“Eadflæd…” she whispered.
“So you say…,” Sihtric said his tone taking on a contemptuous lilt.
“But I didn’t.”
“You did.” And when he spoke again it was in her own voice. “Please. Make it stop. It hurts. I just want it to go away.”
She was frozen as Sihtric studied her.
“And I asked your name. You told me you were Eadflæd of Wessex,” he said simply.
“Am I not still?” Eadflæd asked, fearing his answer.
“No. You gave me your name, sweet Filigeth,” Sihtric replied, a joyful sparkle gleaming in his eyes. “And so, the name and it’s previous owner, are mine.”
@whenimaunicorn rolled for me because I don't have the proper dice, and she rolled Aelswith, angel, candle/light, dramatic. It’s exactly what Aelswith herself would want.
Tagging @ceridwenofwales, @tiyetiye
It is the day of her funeral, and that damnable Lord Aethelhelm has the gall to bow his head and pretend to pray for her soul, to offer his empty condolences to her children. Aethelflaed looks at him with open disgust; she always was an excellent judge of character. But Edward, her dear boy, allows that traitor to clasp his hands and bow his head, to offer words that are as false as they are pretty.
Aelswith is a good Christian woman; she knows that humans do not usually become angels, but she also knows that she is a devout woman of uncommon piety and the wife of a wise king. She is not surprised that she was chosen, and even less surprised at the type of angel she is: a Principality, one who guides and protects nations. Alfred made England with his iron will and clever mind, but she, with her wisdom and her faith, will preserve it.
And her first act, although she is not an avenging angel, is perhaps an act of vengeance. But, she reasons, how can England be safe if the King’s advisor whispers poison into his ear? If her first act as the angelic protector of England also brings her immense personal satisfaction, well, that is a secret between her and God, and Aelswith doesn’t think he would mind.
She waits until the priest finishes the service. She waits until they light candles in her memory. She waits until the only people left in the chapel are her children and their families. She waits until her children are finished sharing stories about her from their childhood. She waits, and even in her improved state, it is not easy, but she always knew when to strike and when to bide her time.
Aethelhlem opens his mouth. Aelswith opens her mouth, too. The candle flames climb high and wild, their flickering light dancing on the wooden walls, illuminating her still body on the stone altar. “Hold your serpent’s tongue in the presence of an angel of the Lord, or I shall strike it from your mouth!” The voice is hers and yet not: with an edge of authority not even the wife of a king could possess, a voice that sets the steadiest of men to shaking, a voice that compels mortals to drop to their knees and pray.
And this man is not steady, and he shakes, and the candle flames climb higher, brighter, sinister, for who says an angel cannot wield the power of light to suggest the presence of hell? She bends the light to her will with barely a thought; the chapel becomes a grotto bathed in flame, the hissing and crackling of the candles like the screaming of tortured souls. Aelswith revels in this newfound power, for just a moment, as her murderer cowers among the flames and sees his own future in the shadows dancing on the wall.
“Cast this traitor from your midst, lest England, like me, perish by his hand!” Her voice booms in the chapel, echoing like bells, and the flames abruptly gutter out all at once, bathing the chapel in darkness except for the single, perfect beam of light that shines through the high window onto her body as it rests, still and serene, on the altar.
They will make no mistake about the identity of their angel, Aelswith is sure of that.
Give ear, O my people, to my teaching;
incline your ears to the words of my mouth!
I will open my mouth in a parable;
I will utter dark sayings from of old,
things that we have heard and known,
that our fathers have told us.
- Psalm 78:1-3
(my contribution to tlk-tober--I picked my own combo: skade/angel/religion/malevolent)
I rolled Iseult, ghost, ink/sludge, malevolent. I knew exactly what to do! 787 words, warnings for haunting and contagion fears. (prompt list here if you want to do one too!)
“Just one more page,” Alfred mutters to himself as the flames gutter and several candles wink out. He feels no breeze; why do they keep doing that?
He lifts himself from the chair; that’s getting harder every time but even with no one here to see it he schools his face, keeps his breath steady as he settles his weight over his own two feet and steps carefully over to the closest candelabra that is still lit. He lifts one taper to rekindle the rest; it’s dim in this room even in the daytime and at night all of the candles are required for him to be able to see his Chronicle.
It must be almost midnight. He’s surprised Aelswith has not sent one of her women to beckon or scold him off to bed. But he must keep working. The Chronicle must be completed before – the shadows seem to swim in the corner of the room. Alfred shakes his head, rubbing at his eyes and refusing to admit he’s overtired. There are no devils here. Only God’s word is true.
With a warning glare directed toward the misbehaving flames, Alfred shambles back to resume his seat. Their exodus from the marshes, and the triumphant repulsion of Guthrum from Wessex. That was where he had left off. The battle would be described triumphantly, shrewd planning emphasized, and – Alfred watches, stupefied, as the final letter he had written pools up black and thick, spreading as though being fed by an entire invisible inkwell. Its neighbors blot up fat and glistening too, and within moments they spread the sickly blackness over half the page, swallowing the words over which he had so recently labored.
He holds the page up, blinking hard and pinching at his brow. The ink is not moving. The spill is all but dry. He must have overturned his inkwell when he stood to tend the candles.
Still, the page is ruined. He takes out a fresh sheet and begins again. He won’t spare many words for their trials in the marshes. Only the inspiring bits.
The Lord God, in his grace, performed a miracle that day, and spared the infant Edward.
The ink shimmers and spreads again, and as Alfred gazes into its blackness he almost hears a voice. Do you even remember me?
He crumples the ruined page, tosses it behind him, and stubbornly writes the words again. Before he even lifts his pen from his son’s name, the blackness is spreading, this time up his fingers as fast as it soaks the parchment. Your God had nothing to do with it.
Alfred refuses to be afraid, although his heart starts beating halfway out of his chest when a terrible thought strikes him. The woman he remembers would not talk to him this way, would not arrive with such a dark and foreboding presence as he is beginning to feel in this room…
It is only his mind playing tricks, after too many hours pain and not enough of sleep. He’ll finish this page and be off to bed.
Ink stains every paper that he touches. Wiping off his ink-stained fingers hasn’t seemed to do any good. The candle flames sputter again, and one seems to dip dangerously close to his scrolls.
“No,” Alfred exclaims, although of course he isn’t talking to anyone, and dives to extinguish the errant flame that seemed somehow about to jump all on its own.
He won’t put pagan nonsense in his Chronicle. Not his legacy, the birth of the Christian England he had spent his whole life building. Did she want him to say that his son was saved by witchcraft? Out of the question.
He extinguishes the candles, one by one. He dares not lick his fingers, although the wicks burn as he pinches each one; the ink is still spreading along the creases of his skin. He won’t touch it to his mouth.
“You cannot have my legacy,” he announces into the slithering darkness. He can almost see the long, dark locks of a woman’s unbound hair. He considers gathering up the already-completed pages, taking them to his room for safekeeping, but not when his fingers mar everything he touches. “I am getting a priest.”
The darkness breathes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not even sure why he’s said it. What is this woman to him, to England? “An exorcism is not the same as an execration, although for you the result might be the same. You cannot interfere. Begone, if you value what is left of your soul.”
When he begins again on the morrow, Alfred does not attribute acts to his God that were not within His purview. He doesn’t mention them at all.
I rolled Uhtred, vampire, religious, cute. That last word made this so hard... until I realized that in my region, “being cute” can mean being an ass / making irreverent jokes. So here we have vampire Uhtred being cute by blaspheming at Hild until she can’t take it anymore. 576 words. Warnings for Christian blasphemy and a mood that turns out more sad than anything else. (prompt list here if you want to do one too!)
“I never cared much for Beocca’s lessons when I was boy.” Uhtred’s eyes are dazzling even as the light of the setting sun fades behind the copse of russet trees.
“And it shows,” Hild replies tartly.
The ruddy color of the autumn leaves behind him makes her old friend look even paler as he stands and stares off in the shade of the trees. “But now, there are aspects of Christianity that I find fascinating.”
“Is that so?” Hild tries to restrain the bloom of hope in her chest; surely Uhtred is firmly in the devil’s clutches now, and no amount of religious study could bring him back to the Kingdom of God.
“I think I could learn from this Jesus Christ. I have become like him now.”
Hild glares up at him.
“Did he not also come back from the dead?”
The cheeky grin plastered across her friend’s face brings back a rush of memories, a flutter of shared delight and joyful aggravation that tugs at the corner of her own lip, despite her resolve to keep her guard up from now on. “That was different. Entirely.”
A chill wind rustles the leaves, making Hild conscious of how quickly twilight is changing into full night. She’s noticed the darkness affects him. Almost all that’s left of Uhtred’s humanity fades with the dying of the light.
“Why do you still meet me out here?” Uhtred asks, as if he can read her thoughts.
Hild looks over her shoulder at the abbey, the building reassuringly close. “You still come to greet me when you wake, so I still come to bid you good night.” I miss you, she wants to add, I am still grieving your loss. But when she looks up at the unearthly sheen of starlight that now emanates from his predator’s eyes, the words die on her tongue.
“Perhaps you are more drawn to me now,” he says softly. She shakes her head faintly. “Now that we have more in common.”
Her brows crease. “What do we have in common?”
The cheeky grin is back. “Now that we both enjoy the sacrament of blood.”
“What on earth are you suggesting.”
“You have been drinking the blood of Christ for years, have you not?” He takes a half step forward, looming into her space. “And I would like nothing more than to take that sacrament from you.”
His words are still teasing, his voice is too, but those are not Uhtred’s eyes. The man she loves is dead. Hild takes a deliberate step backwards, out of the trees, into the churchyard where he cannot follow. They had tested this once, early on in these meetings, making a game of finding the exact threshold of holy ground.
She’d known one day she would need it.
The creature that used to be Uhtred sinks to his knees before her, holding his hands like a supplicant. “I need it, Hild. Bless me. Fill me with the love of God as only an Abbess could give it.”
“You always did love blaspheming,” she says, shaking her head like she always does, clinging to the ruse as long as she can. She’s still not ready to give up these moments, for as many evenings as she can still have them. Her feet start to carry her back to the church, and she forces those steps to remain slow and even. “It’s time for evening prayers. I’ll meet you again tomorrow.”
